


Comfort Of Friends

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-21
Updated: 2006-03-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8092453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: A visit from dear friends comforts troubled hearts. (06/24/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

Jon slipped his credit transfer card into the slot provided by the ground trolley, and stepped down onto the pavement. The trolley whizzed by, carrying commuters into neighborhoods beyond Pilot Hill. He gazed around, searching for the number he needed: 2332 Paris Circle.

After a tired day working at Command, then leaving the city, grimacing at the congestion and noise, Jon was pleasantly surprised at the quietness he found here in this near rural neighborhood. It was mostly one-story homes, with nice, big yards, flower pots on porches, flowering shrubs at gates, and hedges blooming with myriad colors of the rainbow. Some were stone, others brick and wood; there was a muti-faith contemplation center at the far north, next to it a Christian chapel, and a park at the corner lot. Jon knew that a few of these houses were very old, some constructed before the era of the Bell Riots.

Ah, 2332, he spied, nodding at an elderly couple walking toward the park, an odd bluish gray little dog, with drooping ears and a poofed-out bobbed tail dancing between them. They bade him good afternoon as they passed, the taller, bearded fellow grasping the shorter, plump bald one by the elbow, helping him step off the pavement with his cane.

Jon gazed at the little house: Number 2332. "My Aunt Lavinia would've call it 'quaint'," he muttered. It was painted white, its windows trimmed in the same clay-brown as its door, and fronted by a shining white picket fence. Its lawn was cut neatly, as if it had just been mown. Curtains billowed at the open windows.

He opened the gate, trod up the steps, the porch floor creaking a bit under his feet. He touched the auto-chime. "Trip," he announced himself, "It's Jon. You home?"

Fifteen seconds of silence, and a familiar head peaked out, curtains drawn back. "Cap'n?" he grinned. "Come."

The door clicked and Jon opened it, to step inside Trip and Malcolm's home. He hadn't visited them here yet, at this new home. They'd moved here two months ago, closer to the College of Medicine at Starfleet, nearer the hospital.

Trip was there, holding his arms out, asking for a hug, and Jon took the man inside his embrace, not feeling at all awkward. Jon looked down, and smiled. Trip's jaw was clean-shaven, his silver-blond hair longer than usual on the top. He pounded Jon's back as if they hadn't seen each other in years when it had only been last Tuesday.

Jon held Trip closer, snuggled him tightly, and felt his best friend trembling. "He's not...?"

Trip stepped back, patted Jon's cheek, and answered, trying hard to control his lips from quivering, "No. Aw, Jon, no. Hey, sorry I scared ya." He clasped Jon's hand in his, face flushing at the terrible thought of Jon grieving while offering him sympathy. He noticed now the troubled eyes of his dear friend.

Jon returned the pressure, releasing Trip's hand, and guided Trip to the sofa, where they sat, knees touching. "How is he? Tell me he's doing better."

Trip cleared his throat, lifting a pale, strained face. "Yeah, he's stronger. Guessin' it was all those prayers Mama and Miz Mary been sendin' up...never put much faith into 'em myself, Jon, you know that, but still and...all. We're so damned relieved, Cap'n, all of us. He's awake now, hell, ya know that. Ya know his lordship's been here ever' other day for the last two months? He and Miz Reed are staying at the Paisley House with Maddie and Jeremy's parents. Maddie's just been wonderful, I don't think I— I could've held up without her good spirits."

Trip sighed, continued, "If I lost hi—" he choked, and tears ran in a rivulet down the planes of his face, to pool at his chin. Jon kissed Trip's temple, and hushed him, placing a hand across his shoulders, kneading the taut muscles. Trip leaned slightly, letting his head droop onto the convenient shoulder.

Jon held him. "Shhh, Trip, ...it's all right, now..."

Studying the cosy small living room with its plain brown hard-wood floor, simple furniture, fireplace, and bookshelves of old-fashioned paper books, he smiled at the pictures arranged on the walls, still clasping Trip in his arm. Lots of pictures, all remarkable. Trip was still into photography, and many of his best were haphazardly arranged, cluttering up darn nearly all of the wallspace. The Southern packrat and his English everything-in-its-place anti-slob had teased, battled, and politely warred with each other, since their courtship days, over lack of interior decorating talent in the other man.

Framed, tacked, propped up, taped, even probably stapled, were pictures of family, friends, ancestors, and among them people with whom they'd served, forever reminders of places and people lost and never forgotten. Jon stared at them, fighting a moment of dread, at some few of those faces...friends and crew who had lost their lives exploring those worlds.

Trip had displayed an embarassing (to Malcolm) collection of pictures of his husband: all capturing the sweetness, the beauty of the man. Malcolm more than slightly disturbed, flicking droplets of pee with one hand at the photographer, while dandling Maddie's little boy in wet nappies on his knee with his other hand. Malcolm with grubby shins and dirt-smeared sweaty cheekbone, kneeling beside Stuart, planting forsythia bushes in the garden of Grimm Castle (what Trip called the Reed family home, but never to a Reed.)

He chuckled at the photo of Malcolm stepping out of the shower, naked as the day he was born, five feet sevenish- inches bigger, though, blindly searching for a towel Trip had stolen. Malcolm on shipboard, pale and courageously smiling up at Stuart, hand over mouth, face slightly green. Malcolm fencing, Malcolm riding, Malcolm in a "Kiss Me, I'm English" apron stirring a wooden spoon in a saucepot, cursing at the cameraman. Malcolm shaking hands with Jon the day he was promoted. Malcolm blowing out candles on his birthday cake. Malcolm doing just about everything, caught on film for posterity. Malcolm, Trip's dear Malcolm.

Set to the left of the middle of the mantel, was Jon's secret favorite among the wedding pictures. Mal and Trip had been married twice, once by him onboard Enterprise, and again, after the initital voyage, by Mal's parish priest.

The "comfort and help each other, living faithfully together in need..." phrase in the wedding vows was part of Trip's daily life now. Trip patted his shoulder, realizing what had distracted Jon.

Trip wiped his eyes, "You look at it ever' time, Jonny." He chuckled, and Jon took that as permission to get up, and go take a second look. Malcolm was distressed and trying hard not to laugh at the same time, as he removed a garter from his leg to fling at the male wedding guests. Trip remembered pushing Jon into the eligible crowd, giggling when Malcolm whipped the garter around and around in a circle, like an Olympian hammer thrower, before arcing it behind him, right at Jon.

Jon had made no move to catch it, but the frilly, ruffled thing (Madeline's gag gift, and she was the only one that could've possibly persuaded her brother to wear it that day, to surprise Trip) had landed on top of Jon's head, to ooze down his throat, and there to slip into his waiting hand.

The photographer had snapped the picture right at that moment, showing an extremely startled Jonathan Archer. Was it on purpose? Malcolm swore it wasn't. An accident? Fate? It hadn't worked: Jon was still single, and "lookin'".

"Mister Tucker?" a soft male voice called from the open double doors beyond the fireplace, and Jon started. Malcolm. Trip rushed, opening wide the door, and from the corner of his eye, Jon saw a frail figure lying in bed, warmed with old-fashioned quilts. Who would ever think Malcolm could be described as "frail"? He heard Trip whispering, "Darlin', you had ya a nice nap, didn't ya? Ya slept fer nearly two hours."

Jon stepped closer to the door, fingers at the knob, looking in, holding his breath at the scene before him. Trip was sitting in the rocking chair beside the bed, kissing Malcolm's pale forehead, and nuzzling down his cheeks to his earlobe. "You're feelin' better, ain't ya, sweetness? You got a visitor; wanna know who it is?"

Malcolm yawned, and stretched, joints popping audibly, choking back the yelp of pain that came from the movement. Trip touched the palm of Malcolm's hand with his lips, caressing it with such gentle tenderness, Jon wanted to step back and close the door, feeling horribly that he was intruding on something precious.

Malcolm yawned again, and looked toward the door, as Trip nudged him. "Captain!" he exclaimed, and tried to rise. "Please. Sir, come in."

Jon came into the bedroom. "Malcolm," he grinned, pushing Malcolm's upper body gently down into the pillows. "You look stronger. Yes, you really do, so don't overdo it. I can see Trip's been taking care of you, hasn't he? If he hasn't, just say so, and I'll make sure he's—"

Malcolm managed to chuckle, a little gasping effort. "Of course, sir. He won't let me get up, run around, do anything. I lie here, read my mail, watch the vids, my..." he coughed, "my father comes every other afternoon and reads to me, all of C.S. Forrester...(cough) and next up, the biography of Nelson...(cough) can't tell him I'm getting seasick of it." He smiled a bit crookedly, in that endearing way Malcolm had. "Mum does dishes and dishes of tea." He picked at the sheet, scratching at it with the pad of his thumb. One of the fingers that was lacking a nail.

"Maddie vidphones every morning. My Aunts— I've never had so many Reeds around me, and all so bleedin' polite. They must think I'm dy—"

Trip pecked Malcolm's nose with his index finger. "Shut that up, Lew Tennant. Ain't nobody dyin' 'round here, ya understan'?" he spoke fiercely, with a catch in in his breath.

Trip hid his terrified eyes by burying his face into the pleated quilt. Jon watched as Malcolm's hand crawled over the covers, across the small distance to lie upon Trip's head, almost in benediction. Jon bowed his own head. They love. They love each other so uncommonly, so beautifully. They love each other even more since...then, if that's possible.

The hand fell lax onto the sheet, and Trip looked up in stark terror, kissed the tips of those fingers, and tucked Mal's hand back under the warmth of the sheet.

He whispered, "He's gonna be fine, Cap'n. D'ya know Commodore Shawley's already asked me, well...both of us if I'd.. uh, we'd like to or be assigned to the crew that's going to be buildin' Starbase 12? I don' know just yet, but Mal an' me wouldn't mind going back into space. Don't ya know he'd be a great Chief of Security at a starbase, and hell, if they don't need an engineer, I can always get a job at ship maintenance on the spacedock."

Jon's eyes narrowed at the hint of optimistic alarm in Trip's voice. Malcolm probably wasn't going back into space to work again; he'd never be cleared for it without calling in every favor Forrest owed him. Trip? Poor Trip wouldn't leave Malcolm behind. Even if they let Trip command again, which was highly unlikely. T'Pol could compute those odds.

Jon sat down on the bed, took Malcolm Reed's hand in his own. He nearly jumped when Malcolm abruptly woke.

"I think it's going to snow, don't you, Trip?" he asked, gazing toward the open window. Trip raised startled eyes, full of sadness and despair.

Trip shoved half a fist into his mouth, wanting to sob bitterly one moment, and the next storm and rage, because the other half of his soul sometimes faded away from him, into a cold lonely world of his own, where Trip could not join him. His tear ducts were always in use, never idle, they never exhausted themselves since Malcolm had died three times during and afterward...and he wanted to stop thinking about it every goddamn minute.

"No," he gasped, "Hell, hell no, it ain't gonna snow in June, Mal. It's too sunny. No such of a thing, less'n you wanna go into the mountains."

Malcolm didn't answer, he'd dropped off to sleep again, his hand still warmly clasped in his captain's, and his hair lovingly smoothed away from his forehead by his husband.

Trip started to cry again, and Jon stayed speechless, mute. He turned his head slightly, watching Trip bunching up the sheet and quilts in his fists and smothering his face and stifling his cries with the pleats. Jon eased from the bed, stepped into the bathroom, found the washcloths in the drawer, and wet one with cold water, taking it back to his friend. "Here."

Trip took it, scrubbed his face with one hand, still clinging to Mal's arm with the other. He bent his head down close to Malcolm's face, watching intently as Malcolm's lashes fluttered, and his grey eyes opened, to blink up at him. Trip lay his hand over Malcolm's hip, and thrilled as Malcolm's lifted his face to his. His lips raised for a kiss, and Trip let his lips cling to Malcolm's for a long time. "I love you."

Trip's wet cheek lay against Malcolm's lips, as he caressed the sharp hipbone under his palm. "You ain't gonna leave me.. cause if you do, I won't be held responsible, Malcolm."

Malcolm looked up and grinned. "Mister Tucker, I do love you. Quite a bit, in fact. We belong."

Trip snapped his fingers. "Belong, damn. You belong ta _me._ You always have, an' ya always _will_. Ain't that right, babe?"

Malcolm winked at Jon, standing at Trip's back. "I belong to _ya_ , Mis-tah Tuck-ah. And you, my dear man, are mine, body and soul."

Trip made a harrumphing sound. "Huh. Ya forget one thing. Heart."

Malcolm looked up, pushed his thumb into a convenient dimple. "All right, Charlie. You're mine, body, soul, _and_ heart, included."

The door chimed, and Jon was on his way. "I'll get it, you two just stay put."

Jon activated the vidscreen beside the door panel. Phlox and T'Pol. Not a surprise, but seeing Phlox grinning that infamous smile was, when Jon opened the door. "Captain!"

Jon ushered him into the bedroom to see his patient and looked back. T'Pol stood placidly there, still and quiet, as always. "T'Pol?"

Her eyes stared, unfeeling and dully at him, but that wasn't unusual. Vulcans always had that dull, I'm bored to pieces look in the company of human beings. She said, "Captain, Mr. Reed's test results have improved considerably. The College, Dr. T'Mar and Sevek of the Vulcan Academy of Science and Dr. Phlox all say, within a few weeks, Lieu...Mr. Reed's strength, his indomitable vivacity will return. The s'vythyxian injections will commence today, and Phlox..." she trailed off, leaving that sentence unfinished.

It was one of the very few incidences of T'Pol searching for words that Jon could remember. "I know you and Mr. Tucker have been very worried; I, too..." she stopped.

Jon lifted his brow. "Worry's a human emotion, isn't it?"

She lowered her eyes to the twin wing chairs placed side by side in front of the cold hearth. "Mr. Tucker did not give up. The human...the person who does not worry, has no hope. If a man still has hope, he may have a positive result."

Jon winked at her. "Yes, of course. And then there's the fact that Trip will never let Malcolm go."

She looked him in the eye. "Commander Tucker was very fearful, was he not, that he would lose his bondmate?"

Jon nodded, "Oh, yeah, T'Pol, but he's the bravest man I know. He conquers that fear day by day, by admitting the fear of losing Malcolm is his greatest adversary. That adversary will never beat Trip. He just wakes up each morning, saying, 'You won't break me.' That fear, Trip knows, if Malcolm ever saw it in his eyes, that fear would spread just like a communicable disease to Malcolm. He refused to give into it, and saved his strength for helping Mal battle this...illness, all the time believing in a complete cure. He never lost hope of Mal getting out of an invalid's bed, returning to his duty, doing what he was put on this earth to. do."

She was perplexed, but did not take the trouble to discuss further her thoughts. "Is Mr. Reed aware, today, Captain?"

"He knew me, and of course, Trip. Do you want to go in and see him? I'm sure if he's still awake, he'd like to say a few words. Will that medicine make him drowsy..."

T'Pol touched her finger to Jon's bare wrist for a couple seconds, then walked to the bedroom door, and slid it open.

"Sub-commander!"

Jon heard her answer, "Yes, Lieutenant. It is I."


End file.
